"A touch from switches
up on the Rock would blow the whole lot of us to Kingdom Come. The bally
old German out there knows that."
Marcella knew nothing of world politics. He explained.
"England is mistress of the seas," he orated proudly. "The empire
on which the sun never sets! In a few years' time every foreign
ship--especially Germans--will be swept off the seas and Britannia will
literally rule the waves."
"She looks such a nice, comfortable, clean old ship," began Marcella,
feeling very sorry for her.
"Clean?" he cried. "A German clean? Filthy cockroachy holes, their ships
are! Why, there's only one race on earth dirtier than the Germans and
that's the Scots."
Then he stopped dead and giggled nervously as he realized what he had
said. Her eyes were blazing, her lips quivering; it was impossible for
her to speak for a moment, her breath was coming in such sharp pants.
For a moment she looked just like Andrew Lashcairn, but before she had
time to launch her indignation he was stammering and apologizing and
looking so sorry that she decided to bury the hatchet. And he went on
breathlessly, trying to reinstate himself.
"You know, I hate the Germans. I happen to know a lot about them and the
menace they are to Eng--Britain," he said in a low, confidential voice.
He had, as a matter of fact, recently read in proof some spy-revelations
his father's firm was publishing.
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